These Sandviches, They Are Mine!
by Chris Keating
Summary: The Heavy is having lunch. Would YOU interrupt a 250 pound Russian man with a minigun while he's eating? The Scout did. Guess how that turned out? Rated T for mild language and a surprising amound of pee jokes.


These Sandviches, They Are Mine!

It was quiet around the Blu base for once. A momentary cease in the action. Times like these were the Blu Heavy's favourite times during the day. He lumbered down to the Blu kitchen, a small nook with a refrigerator and a microwave, just a ways from the Intelligence Room. The Heavy, who had to kneel to see into the fridge, which was dwarfed by his massive presence, looked around at the various shelves. There was something from all the "little peoples", as the Heavy referred to them, inside the fridge. There was the Scout's Bonk! Cola (six-pack of course), some ribs that the Soldier was saving, barbeque meat for the Pyro, a tall bottle of scotch that belonged to the Demoman, a plate of fancy French cuisine that could only belong to the sophisticated Spy, a jar of yellow liquid that…belonged to the sniper, ("Is lemonade maybe?" The Heavy thought as he noticed it.), a severed hand that the Medic was keeping on ice, and a wrapped baggie of some kind of southern food that the Heavy couldn't identify.

"Must belong to little engineer man." He mumbled as he continued to examine the fridge.

And there it was, a plate with about five sandviches sitting on it, filled with delicious meat and lettuce and topped off with an olive. As a special treat to himself, the Heavy had left a Dalokohs Bar on the plate as well.

"It goes straight to behind but it's worth it!" The Heavy shouted excitedly as he took the plate out of the fridge and sat down on a nearby bench. He wolfed down one of the sandviches and was just debating washing it down with some of the Sniper's "lemonade" when he heard pattering footsteps coming down the hall.

"Who is there!" He shouted as he reached for his minigun, which he always sat next to while he ate.

After a short silence, the Red Scout came jogging around the corner.

"Hey, what's up, fatty?"

"You are enemy! You must die!" The Heavy shouted as he prepared to open fire.

"Whoa, whoa! You know the rules, stupid!" The Scout backed up a bit. "Lunchtime is cease-fire time, you get me?"

The Heavy reluctantly put his gun down and grumbled.

"I kill you later, baby-man." He said, sounding more than a little disappointed.

"Kill me! I'd like to see you catch me, you fat bald bastard!" The Scout laughed, then noticed the Heavy's plate. "Heyyy, whatcha got there, big guy?"

"They are delicious sandviches, and they are mine." The Heavy answered, pre-emptively reaching for the plate.

"Gimme one."

"No."

"C'mon! I'm starvin' and there ain't nothing to eat at our base! Just severed limbs and jars of the Sniper's pee!"

The Heavy was suddenly very glad he hadn't had any of the "lemonade."

"No. These are my sandviches, and for me only. Babies get NOTHING."

"Gimme one of them sandviches, fat-ass!" The Scout demanded angrily. "Or else that chocolate bar thing. That looks good too!"

"NO!" The Heavy yelled. "Is my lunch, I made it!"

"I'll get the rest of the Red guys over here, baldy, I swear I will!"

"I SAY NO!" The Heavy was getting sick of the Scout's relentless nagging voice.

"Then I'll just bean ya with this here bat and take the whole plate, knucklehead!" The Scout twirled his bat in his hand as he said this.

"You say is cease-fire. This means no fighting."

"Nobody'll complain if I just knock you out, right? But it'll take a big swing, with a thick skull like that."

"You try my patience, little man!" the Heavy declared angrily.

"Bring it on, big guy! Bring it on!" The Scout bounced around a bit, foolishly dropping his bat to make little punching motions with his hands, like he was miming boxing.

The Heavy stood up and punched the Scout real hard in the face. Naturally, the kid from Brooklyn was out like a light. The Heavy easily picked up the lightweight kid, went over to the fridge, took something out and went outside (after putting away his beloved sandviches, of course.)

A little while later, the Heavy was back at the bench, enjoying his sandviches, when the Sniper showed up.

"Oi, Heavy. Ya wouldn't have happened to see a glass jar filled with yellah stuff in the fridge earlier, would ya?"

"Oh, lemonade?"

The Sniper looked at him and laughed a bit.

"I hope ya didn't drink that stuff, mate. I really do."

"Is not lemonade?"

"Nah, mate. See, when I'm up in my perch, sniping all those bloody Reds, I don't have time to take a piss, now do I? That's what the jar's for."

"So, Scout was not kidding?"

"Scout? What Scout?"

The Heavy started laughing uproariously while the Sniper just looked bewildered.

Meanwhile back at the Red base, the Scout was just waking up from his Heavy-induced nap.

"Aw, man…What stinks? And why am I all damp? What is this garbage?"

The Scout didn't need anybody to answer his question for him. The almost-completely empty jar sitting next to him was all the answer he needed.


End file.
